


Hallelujah

by bloodyhands_and_hollowstars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 04:24:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3596223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodyhands_and_hollowstars/pseuds/bloodyhands_and_hollowstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the fourth night, some patrons see him stumble outside the bar, scream, and put his fist through the windshield of his car. The broken glass leaves his hand bleeding onto the dry earth, but he doesn’t seem to notice, staring at the glint of the glass under the flickering streetlamp. </p>
<p>He drops to his knees and no longer murmurs his prayers, but sobs them, the words tumbling like stones from his mouth.</p>
<p>“Please, Cas, please... oh God, Cas… Sammy… God..."</p>
<p>The passerby make no move to comfort him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hallelujah

No one has seen him before, but he’s spent the last three nights slumped at the bar, downing shot after shot, not caring when the liquor spilled onto his worn leather jacket. 

He leaves around three in the morning, stumbling out to his muddy black classic car, roaring away from the bar only to return that evening. 

Doesn’t speak much except to order more drinks, but sometimes those near him could swear they could hear prayers streaming from his lips when his head slumps and his eyes are the dullest. 

Then he’ll look around, heartbreakingly hopeful, the briefest spark of light in his eyes. He doesn’t see what he wants to, and the light is gone, and the pain that replaces it cuts like broken glass. 

He has bruises and scars. The former fade, but the latter only seem to make him seem more vulnerable. 

The freckles on his sun-tanned face are fading under the grime that builds upon his skin and the stubble that grows longer and longer. 

Either blood or dirt is under his fingernails, but everyone guesses the former based on the vicious gouges in his arms when he takes the jacket off. There are fresh ones every night, overlaying the scabbing stripes in a macabre tableau. 

On the fourth night, some patrons see him stumble outside the bar, scream, and put his fist through the windshield of his car. The broken glass leaves his hand bleeding onto the dry earth, but he doesn’t seem to notice, staring at the glint of the glass under the flickering streetlamp. 

He drops to his knees and no longer murmurs his prayers, but sobs them, the words tumbling like stones from his mouth.

“Please, Cas, please... oh God, Cas… Sammy… God..."

The passerby make no move to comfort him.

The next night, he doesn't appear until two a.m., and when he does the security almost throws him out. There's blood on his hands and his face, staining his clothes, and a brokenness in his face.

His hands shake so much he almost drops his drink, but he manages to raise it to his cracked lips and down the liquor. 

There aren’t many others there, but they’re all watching him warily as he downs glass after glass, breath rasping in his throat. His eyes are dark, almost black in the dim lighting. Eventually he waves for another shot, but the bartender shakes his head.

“You’ve had enough. Any more, you’re gonna kill youself.”

“So?” The man says with a crooked grin. 

There’s an uncomfortable shifting of the other patrons, and the bartender is silent, unsure of how to respond. 

“So?” he repeats to himself, softer, almost thoughtful. One hand creeps inside his jacket, and everyone tenses, but he doesn’t move past that. 

“When I was little, my mom would always tell me ‘Angels are watching over you’. Every night before I fell asleep. She died when I was four. Our house burned down with her inside. I remember carrying my baby brother Sammy outside. Since then, I’ve always protected him.”

His eyes are not as dark now, a glimmer of green shining through the black, and they’re unfocused, looking into the past. The bar is silent, everyone holding their breath, riveted on the broken man sitting at the table. 

“Years later, and we met actual angels. They’re dicks, by the way. Well, at least most of them…” His gaze dropped, and he shuddered violently, drawing a rasping breath before continuing. 

“There was one… his name is- was, was… Castiel. ‘Course I never called him that. Too much of a mouthful, right? So he was Cas to me. To Sammy too, but me and Cas were always closer. He said that we have a ‘more profound bond’. What a dork, huh?”

There’s muffled murmurs among the other now.  Angels? What a nutjob,  they say, but they can’t take their eyes off the man in the old leather coat. 

“We went through… so much together. He became my friend. Part of the family. There were times when I went to him instead of my brother. He saved my life more times than I can count. But… he made some mistakes. He was just trying to do good, you know? He was just trying to save everyone. That’s all he ever wanted to do.”

He chuckles hollowly, wiping a hand across his mouth, leaning back in his chair. 

“I guess you can’t really do good in this world. Seems like all the good people have terrible things happen to them. Doesn’t matter what you do, you can’t protect them.”

His head dropped to his chest for a moment, then rose again, a weak grin curving his lips. 

“I’m not one of the good people. Cas thought I was. But if I had just stopped him in time, seen what he was doing sooner… he wouldn’t be- he wouldn’t be… gone. If I could live without Sammy, then I wouldn’t have brought him back only for him to die again, more horribly...”

Suddenly his hand plunges inside his jacket. There’s a flash of metal and suddenly there’s the barrel of an old revolver pressed to his temple. 

“I’m one of the terrible things,” he said as the others froze in shock. “If any of you make it to Heaven, look for a dorky, scruffy guy in a tan trenchcoat. He has black hair and blue eyes. Also a tall-ass dude with lady hair who likes to wear plaid. Tell them that Dean says hi. And tell Cas that- that I- I love him.”

Before anyone can react, his finger moves on the trigger.

He seems much smaller crumpled on the floor in a spreading pool of blood. Much more frail zipped up into a black plastic body bag. 

When the police and the ambulances leave, the other patrons slowly trickle out, their gazes avoiding the stain on the old wooden floorboards.  



End file.
